


All Unwoven

by thenerdyindividual



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bandits & Outlaws, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fights, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenerdyindividual/pseuds/thenerdyindividual
Summary: Jaskier cares for Geralt after they are attacked by bandits. Geralt knows he isn't getting the full story of how exactly they escaped, but Jaskier isn't ready to talk about it yet. But when a bard at a tavern sings a song recounting the events, Geralt gets the full story.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 423





	All Unwoven

**Author's Note:**

> While the violence in this is not graphic, it is a bit gross. If you don't want to get into it at all but still want to read, skip from "The man laughs, “How are you going to do that little bard? No weapons, no witcher. You’re all alone.”" to "Jaskier stumbles to the stream". From there, you should be safe.

Jaskier bends down, cupping the cool water of the stream in his hands. He swishes it around in his mouth, and spits out. The water comes away red, and the metallic taste of blood slowly leaves his mouth the more he rinses.

He scrubs his hands, neck, face. His reflection in the water is distorted, but it’s the best mirror he is likely to get for some time. His shirt is ruined. There’s no working the stain free, not with the way the blood has soaked through to his chest, making the fabric cling to his skin. The whorls of his knuckles still have blood caked in them, but he can’t justify staying away from Geralt any longer. 

He stumbles the few steps back to Geralt. A pressure in his chest release when he sees Geralt already stirring. He groans softly, trying to sit up. Jaskier is there to help, hands coming to clutch at the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. It is far better off than Jaskier’s.

“Why does my side hurt?” Geralt asks, face paler than usual.

“You were stabbed. Some bandits were trying to collect a bounty on your head.” Jaskier explains.

Geralt seems to notice the blood then. His eyes go wide, and his hands paw clumsily at Jaskier’s shirt.

“It’s not mine.” Jaskier says reassuringly.

Geralt stares at him blankly, and then hauls Jaskier close. It’s only then Jaskier notices just how badly he’s trembling. He can barely steady his hands long enough to rub his thumb against Geralt’s chin like he always does.

“What happened?”

“I took care of them,” Jaskier answers; he can’t bring himself to share the details, “We should get you to a healer.”

Geralt, for once, doesn’t put up any fuss. He gets his feet under him, and tries to rise. He lets out a pained hiss, and almost collapses. Jaskier slots himself under Geralt’s shoulder, and heaves. Together they manage to stagger after the tracks Roach left behind as she fled. 

They find her just in time. Geralt is leaning more heavily than ever on Jaskier’s shoulder. Much longer, and Jaskier wouldn’t be able to hold him anymore. 

Roach nuzzles them when she sees them, and obediently positions herself so that Geralt can mount up. Geralt straightens up, and makes a valiant effort to get his foot into the stirrup. The second time he does it, he nearly passes out again.

Jaskier lowers him to the ground, and looks to their surroundings. A strange sense of calm has settled on him. It’s like he’s watching everything through a pane of glass. Smooth, serene, distant. He spots a fallen log not far, and with much straining, he manages to roll it over to Roach.

Geralt settles one heavy arm over Jaskier’s shoulders again, and together they fumble until Geralt is draped across Roach’s saddle. Jaskier pats her nose gently, hands still trembling.

“Sorry old girl. You’ll have to carry us both.” He apologizes, and mounts up behind Geralt.

Jaskier never thought Geralt could look small, but he seems tiny now. He’s in a bed at the village healer’s home. A soft blanket is pulled up to his chin, and his breathing is shallow but steady. The inaction doesn’t suit him. Even when he sleeps naturally, he’s still alert, never wanting to put Jaskier in danger.

He’s just so still.

“Your friend will recover,” the healer says gently, putting a papery hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, “You got him here just in time. The stab was clean, and he has the magical healing rate of every Witcher. He’ll be up and walking around in no time.”

Jaskier nods at them, fighting the tears that spring forward unbidden, “Thank you.”

“Why don’t we get you some clean clothes, love?” 

“I can’t leave him.”

“There’s nothing else you can do. He’s through the worst of it. All he needs now is rest,” they say gently and use their papery hand to guide Jaskier away, “I have some clothes that will fit.”

Geralt wakes the next morning, and Jaskier has never been so happy to see those golden eyes. He launches himself onto the bed, ignoring the way Geralt winces. He needs his hands on the skin, needs to feel the heat of it under his palms. Geralt is okay. He’s burning warm just like he should be, and he squeezes the back of Jaskier’s neck comfortingly.

Jaskier can’t bring himself to touch his lute. He unlatches his case sometimes, thinking maybe he can play now. Sometimes he’s able to get as far as placing his fingers on the strings before his breath catches in his throat. His hands have long since been clean, but he can still see his knuckles caked with blood.

Geralt eyes him from the edge of the fire as he feeds it more kindling. Jaskier can read the emotion loud and clear; concern. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks awkwardly.

“Fine.” Jaskier says cheerfully.

“Bullshit.” Geralt grunts, but doesn’t press.

Jaskier squeezes his hand gratefully. He’s not ready to talk about it quite yet.

Winter comes, and with it their annual stay at Kaer Morhen. Jaskier feels like he can breathe again. The dark halls of Kaer Morhen are so different than the woods. He is no longer haunted by the ghost of what he did.

He is even happy to see Yennefer when she arrives. She thrives among the Witchers. She has half of them eating out of her hand by the end of the week. The rest are eating out of her hand by the end of the month.

Jaskier writes his first song since the attack. A simple little ditty about a Witcher Tamer. It feels good to flex his creative muscles again, and Geralt looks at him with such relief Jaskier can feel it beneath his skin.

They tend to spend their evenings in the library, Jaskier has a wonderful time losing terribly at cards.

“Oh fuck off.” Jaskier says, glaring at Eskel, “You have to be cheating.”

Eskel grins, entirely unfazed, “No, You’re just shit at cards. Every time you get a shit set you pout.”

“I do not pout!” Jaskier claims indignantly.

“I’m afraid you do,” Yennefer adds without looking up from her book, “You look like a child when they are told they can’t have cake.”

“Geralt! Defend me!”

Geralt looks up from his position in front of the fire place. The light glinting off the sword he’s been sharpening for the last hour. He lost a bet with one of his brothers, and had to take over armory duty for the remainder of their time at Kaer Morhen.

“You pout.” Geralt says with a shrug.

“How dare you!” Jaskier exclaims, “After all I have done for you! I am wounded.”

He puts on his most dramatic in-pain face, and fixes it on Geralt. The corner of Geralt’s lips tilt up, and he shakes his head a little. It sends Jaskier into a fit of laughter that nearly knocks him off his stool.

Geralt pulls him close that night, murmuring, “I missed your laugh” in his ear.

“Look at you expressing emotion,” Jaskier teases, feeling more himself than he has in almost a year, “Did Yennefer slip something into your drink again?”

Geralt gooses his side, and Jaskier snorts.

When he is sure Geralt is almost asleep, Jaskier smiles, nuzzles close, and murmurs, “I missed laughing.”

Geralt’s arm tightens along his back.

They visit Ciri at school before they return to travelling for the season. She’s doing well. Her eyes aren’t so haunted anymore, and she has stopped constantly quoting Calanthe, which is a relief to everybody.

“I’m learning the lute.” She announces proudly one afternoon.

“Are the teachers any good?” Jaskier asks

“Some.” 

“Would you like me to shame them into being better teachers? I could do that you know. I went to Oxenfurt. I know the ins and outs of music better than almost anybody in the continent. I bet your teachers would tremble before me.”

Ciri laughs and shakes her head, “Thank you though.”

Jaskier forgot how good it felt to play at taverns, and inns. Sure, they often reek of sweat, alcohol, and sex. But there’s nothing like the energy of a crowd who actually wants to hear you. It might be an honor to play at court, most bards make it their goal to go. They want the acclaim. Valdo went down that path for one.

That should have been Jaskier’s first clue that court life wasn’t meant for him. Still, Destiny took him where he was meant to be. He was meant to be by Geralt’s side, and he was meant for crowds who enjoyed singing along with abandon.

He finishes his set in one such tavern, collects his coin, and then drops into a seat next to Geralt. Like always, Geralt’s arm warps around him, hand resting on his hip. Turns out when he’s not emotionally constipated he’s quite affectionate. Vesemir still hasn’t let Jaskier live down his first visit to Kaer Morhen where Jaskier tried to punch him for emotionally stunting the Witchers.

A scrawny young man with freckles takes Jaskier’s place on the floor, and begins playing. He’s not bad. His lute is a bit out of tune, and his voice is reedy. He has a lot learn as far as technique, but he plays some of the traditional bard songs quite nicely.

He sips some ale about halfway through the set, giving his voice a rest. Then he launches into the next song. Icy-hot panic prickles its way up Jaskier’s spine.

Geralt notices, and sits up, alert for danger, “What is it?” he asks sharply.

“How does he know?” Jaskier whispers, eyes fixed on the scrawny little fuck.

“Know what?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier can’t sit still anymore. His mind urges him to action. His chair scrapes back, interrupting the song. The young man jumps about a mile into the air, and begins a hasty retreat across the room. Faintly, Jaskier realizes his legs have carried him across the room. He can also tell that Geralt is calling his name.

He collides with the young man hard enough to cause him to stumble. His hands fist in the fabric of the young man’s shirt.

“How do you know?” Jaskier demands in a voice that he barely recognizes. He sounds like Geralt on a hunt.

“Please,” the young man gasps, scrabbling at the back of Jaskier’s hands, “Please put me down. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How do you know what really happened?” Jaskier demands again.

“Please. Someone else wrote it. I’m just singing it. Don’t hurt me.”

“How did _they_ know?”

A large hands fists in the back of Jaskier’s doublet, and hauls him backwards. Jaskier’s hands fall free of the young man’s clothes. Geralt wraps his free hand over Jaskier’s shoulder, and steers him out of the tavern.

The crowd is staring at him as they go.

“What the fuck was that?” Geralt asks when they are a safe distance from the tavern.

“I don’t know how they could have known.” Jaskier says, he must be wild eyes with panic. He’s never seen Geralt look at him like that.

“Known what, Jas?” Geralt asks, hands coming up to steady Jaskier byut the shoulders.

“Known what happened that day in the woods.”

“Which day?”

“The bandits, and you almost…” Jaskier cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“What did happen?” Geralt asks, “You never told me.”

“I can’t. I can’t. You won’t ever see me the same way.” Jaskier says, clutching so hard at Geralt’s wrists that it would have bruised a normal man.

“Come on.” Geralt says gently, guiding Jaskier up the backstairs to the room they rented at the tavern.

Jaskier sits silently on the edge of the bed as Geralt works. He starts a fire in the grate. He removes Jaskier’s boots, and doublet, then drapes a heavy woolen blanket over Jaskier’s shoulders. Satisfied with his work, he sits next to Jaskier on the bed, and wraps an arm around him again.

“Start at the beginning.” Geralt instructs.

*

“We would move much more quickly if you would just let me ride Roach with you.” Jaskier points out.

“Roach wasn’t bred to carry two,” Geralt grumbles, “And you’d have to hold on to me, and wouldn’t be able to pester me with your lute all day.”

“You know you love my music.” Jaskier says, smiling up at Geralt.

He doesn’t get a response. Instead, Geralt just grunts, but it’s his happy grunt. It brings warmth to Jaskier’s chest. He strums a few notes on his lute as they walk, humming the notes of a new song he’s working on.

“Stop, Jaskier.” 

“What?”

“Stop playing. I hear something.”

Jaskier knows better by now not to keep playing when Geralt is doing his Witcher-ing. He also knows that it annoys Geralt when Jaskier calls it Witcher-ing. That doesn’t stop him.  
Geralt comes to a halt, and swings down from Roach’s back. He draws his sword, steel for men. Jaskier moves instinctually behind him. The woods are quiet for several moments. Long enough that Jaskier almost opens his mouth to ask Geralt if they can move on.

Then several men move out of the trees. They are in simple leather armor, but the swords they carry have been sharpened so much that they almost resemble spikes with handles. They look deadly sharp.

“Afternoon, Master Witcher.” The leader of the band says with an oily smile.

“What do you want?” Geralt growls

“We’re here to collect you. Seems you skipped out on a contract with our employer.” The leader answers.

“I was hired to kill a monster, and it wasn’t a monster. Therefore the contract is broken.” Geralt explains, but doesn’t lower his sword.

“Our employer doesn’t see it that way.” The leader takes a menacing step forward.

Geralt holds firm. Jaskier remembers vaguely something Vesemir said about not ceding ground to your opponent.

“Leave now, and there won’t be a problem.”

“Dead or alive, he said.” The leader says with a casual shrug.

Violence breaks out between one breath and the next. The men surround them, driving Geralt away from Jaskier. Jaskier clutches his lute by the neck, drawing it up like a cudgel. Whatever Filavandrel did to it makes it impossible to break, probably as an apology for breaking the original. There are worse weapons to have.

He gets one in the face breaking his nose. He smashes another in the sternum, knocking the air out of him. But it is three against one, and Jaskier has no hope of winning. His knees hit the ground, and he only doesn’t whimper because he’s too shocked by the pain.

A bony hand twists in his hair, yanking his head back. The voice that belongs to said hand calls out cruelly, “Oh Master Witcher!”

Geralt dispatches one opponent, and then turns. His eyes widen in fear when he takes in Jaskier’s position. He takes a step forward.

“Don’t hurt him.” He growls.

One of the men takes a step forward as well, sword glinting in his hand.

“Geralt! No!” Jaskier calls out, but it’s too late. The man drives his sword deep into Geralt’s middle, and yanks back, leaving a trail of blood drops in its wake.

“Don’t you dare!” Jaskier shouts, screams really, “Don’t you dare kill him! I will kill you! Do you hear me? I will fucking kill you! Get off of him!”

Geralt isn’t moving. Fuck. He isn’t moving!

One of the other men steps in front of Jaskier, obscuring his view of Geralt.

“What are you going to do bard?”

“I will tear your fucking throat out!” Jaskier hisses, struggling against the hands holding him.

The man laughs, “How are you going to do that little bard? No weapons, no witcher. You’re all alone.”

Then the man makes a mistake. He leans in, intending to taunt him. Jaskier’s vision goes black. There’s a scream. The metallic taste of blood floods his mouth.

When he can see again, the man is on the ground. His breath comes in desperate gurgles. Jaskier feels something warm, and wet on his face, soaking into his shirt. Right at the artery, there’s a chunk of flesh missing. 

The man collapses, and the hands release Jaskier. There’s a shout about not getting paid enough. Then they are gone.

Jaskier stumbles to the stream.

*

Geralt is silent for several long moments. Long enough that Jaskier can feel the oily tendrils of fear sliding from his stomach to his mouth.

“You tore a man’s throat out with your teeth?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier nods.

“Fuck.” Geralt grunts.

“That’s all you have to say? I tear a man’s throat out and all you have to say is fuck?” Jaskier snaps.

Geralt leans, capturing his mouth in a kiss. Jaskier clutches at Geralt’s shirt.

“You did what you had to so we could survive,” Geralt says darkly, “and you did it in the most dramatic way you could.”

“You’re not disgusted?”

“You tore out a man’s throat for me. How could I be disgusted?” Geralt kisses him again, a hint of teeth, “I just wish I was conscious to see it.”

“You are aroused by the oddest things.” Jaskier comments

“Pot calling the kettle black.” Geralt murmurs, kissing him again.

“Fair enough.”

Geralt holds him all night. Even when Jaskier has a nightmare, haunted by images of a sightless body bleeding into the grass.

**Author's Note:**

> Come Visit me on tumblr! https://thenerdyindividual.tumblr.com/


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